


give me touch (cause i've been missing it)

by professortennant



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: (that someone is Gil), Canon Divergence, F/M, Look Jess has some issues with men and Gil is here to be the answer, Post-1.19, Post-Out to Get You, SOMEONE TELL JESSICA WHITLY SHE'S GOOD AND DESERVES GOOD THINGS AND HAPPINESS, Smut, smut with feelings, touch starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:48:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24514882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: (She’s not sure she’ll ever be ready to tell him how she isn’t sure she even knows what she wants. It was years of Martin taking what he wanted, telling her what it is she wanted and how she liked it. It was a night of Nicholas being rough and quick—all power and no affection. And she’s been denied affection—genuine, pure affection—from a man for so long. She’s hungry for it, starving for it.Hungry for him. Starving for him. Someone who understands her, has always seen her.)
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Jessica Whitly
Comments: 5
Kudos: 63





	give me touch (cause i've been missing it)

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by touch by daughter (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mFwr_1Nz270) and also because i hate that jessica whitly called herself broken and lonely and needed to fix that

“Gil,” she murmurs, hands sliding up into his hair and lifting her mouth to his once more. Her nails dig into his shoulders, push at the heavy fabric of his jacket, demanding more from him. 

After Martin and Nicholas, two men she should never have let touch her in the first place, she suddenly feels dirty and unclean, tarnished by their filthy hands and misdeeds. Gil’s touch is like the cleansing balm, the holy water.

_You’re good enough, Jess. You have_ always _been good enough._

When he touches her so reverently, she almost believes it. 

“Jess,” he murmurs against her skin, clinging to the last threads of self-restraint as he pulls back and smooths the hair off her forehead, tucks the silken strands behind her ears and cups her face in his hands. “We don’t have to jump straight from a closed window to a wide open one. We can leave it here for tonight, talk about this in the morning when our heads are clear.”

She wraps her hands around his wrists, presses her cheek into the curve of his hand. “I’m done waiting for _us_ , Gil. And my head is perfectly clear—clearer than it’s been in a long time.” She brushes her lips against his palm, smiling softly as he shudders at the touch. “ _Please,_ Gil. I just—I just—“

But she’s not sure she can bring herself to vocalize how deeply she needs to touch and be touched by him, how she had gone through the motions with Nicholas but had rushed her way through it without _feeling_ it. 

(She’s not sure she’ll ever be ready to tell him how she isn’t sure she even knows what she wants. It was years of Martin taking what he wanted, telling her what it is she wanted and how she liked it. It was a night of Nicholas being rough and quick—all power and no affection. And she’s been denied affection—genuine, pure affection—from a man for so long. She’s hungry for it, starving for it. 

Hungry for _him._ Starving for _him._ Someone who understands her, has always seen her. _)_

There’s no words for that, though—not yet, not tonight. She shows him instead. Her mouth finds his easily, the slip and slide of her lips against his hot and wet and frantic. Gil seems to make up his mind where this night is going and pulls her against him with a groan, tilting his head and deepening the kiss, rubbing his hands up and down her back and encouraging every sigh and moan from her.

His jacket hits the floor first and she kisses his cheek and takes his hand in hers and leads him to the winding staircase that leads to her bedroom. 

“Wait,” he tells her softly, tugging at her wrist and stopping her at the bottom of the stairs. Before she can question why on earth they would consider stopping now, he kneels down before her, calloused palm dragging over her calf in a way that makes her shiver and sway on the spot.

“Gil, wha—“

“Lift,” he commands gently, fingers wrapping around her ankle, encouraging her to step up out of the ridiculously high heels she hasn’t taken off since this morning. She rolls her eyes but does as he asks, sliding her foot from the heel and grinning indulgently at him as he taps her other ankle and asks her to repeat the motion.

He places the heels neatly at the bottom of the stairs and slips his hand back into hers.

“You know, most men would want the heels _on_ ,” she muses, leading him the rest of the way up the stairs.

“I’m not most men.”

It’s not smug; not a pick-up line. It’s a simple fact and it stops her in her tracks at the top of the stairs, her palm stroking his face, mesmerized at the way he melts into her touch, eyes going darker and sweeter all for her. They’d never quite gotten this far back then—only a few stolen, hurried kisses—but she’s more than ready to make up for every moment lost.

“No,” she says quietly, leaning in to kiss him once more, tongue flicking against the seam of his lips. “You’re not.” 

They stumble to the bedroom, Gil obviously delighted with their newfound height difference without her heels. His thumb and finger hook beneath her chin to lift her mouth to his, bends his knees to slide his arms around her and lift her up closer against him, her toes just brushing the plush carpet of her bedroom. 

He kisses her softly—so _softly_ —gentle nips at her bottom lip immediately soothed by a flick of his tongue, hands roaming over her shoulders and back and hips like he doesn’t know where he wants to touch her the most. When his hands brush the side of her breasts, she gasps into the cool darkness of the room and feels the reality of the situation settle in, a newly ignited spark heating low in her belly.

“Please,” she murmurs, kissing his neck and sucking a mark into his pulse point. Her hands slip beneath his sweater to scratch fingernails over his stomach, grinning into his neck when he hisses her name and flexes her hips against her.

“ _Jessica,”_ he growls in warning. It feels like a victory to see him lose his cool a little, to see him break and _want_ her the way she’s wanted to him. 

“What?” She asks innocently, pulling away and running her hands through his hair. She tugs at his sweater impatiently and he takes it off easily, fabric falling to the floor. 

He shakes his head at her, leaning in to kiss her softly. “You’re a force, Jessica Whitly.”

“You’re looking pretty forceful yourself,” she teases with a soft blush. It’s been years since she’s felt _playful_ in the bedroom. But he’s solid and warm and so, so strong in front of her. It’s too tempting to not give in to the urge to lean forward and kiss the center of his chest, tongue trailing over the muscular divide in his skin, evidence of a lifetime in law enforcement and time put in at the gym. 

(It’s too easy to let herself get carried away with what he could do to her—the bulk and size of him—and the fantasies she’s entertained for the last year.)

But before she can get her mouth and his body acquainted properly, his fingers are pulling the zip of her dress down, fabric pooling at her feet. And there’s no words left to say because Gil Arroyo is looking at her like a starving man and she’s what’s for dinner. 

She braces herself for the frantic flurry of sex that she knows is coming—he’ll press her into the mattress and tug her panties off and fuck her until they’re both panting and clawing at each other, racing to the finish line. It’s how it’s always been with Martin and Nicholas and she expects the same from Gil. 

But Gil takes his time, leisurely just _looking_ at her, taking her in. “Beautiful,” he breathes, stepping closer, hands lifting to ghost over the silk of her bra, callused fingertips drifting over her abdomen to toy with the waistband of her matching panties. 

She grabs him by the back of the neck, fuses their mouths together, desperate to keep it frantic and playful. She can’t take _reverence;_ can’t take anything approaching tenderness or love—not tonight. She’s not sure she deserves it; deserves him.

They move back to the bed and she fiddles with his belt before he gently knocks her hands away and does the work for her, nodding back towards the bed. “Lay down,” he tells her, voice dark and husky.

Every inch of her tingles in anticipation as she watches with hungry eyes as he strips for her, pushing pants and boxers down in one easy motion, kicking off his shoes and sock and leaving him completely bare for her.

She can’t help herself. She flicks her eyes down to where he’s thick and hard for her and she lets out a little groan, trails a hand over her stomach and breasts in anticipation.

He crawls onto the bed after her and captures her hands in his, stopping her from touching herself. “That’s my job,” he rumbles, pushing her hands to either side of her hips. He nudges his way between her thighs, his own arousal forgotten. She frowns at him. He’s not following the script she knows so well.

God, how long had it been since someone had touched her like this? Like she deserved to be touched with reverence? Like she deserved pleasure?

It makes her squirm when he presses soft, open mouthed kisses on her stomach above the waistband of her underwear, kissing his way up her body, pausing to lick at the soft curve of her thigh, the grooves between her ribs, the valley between her breasts.

“Off,” he murmurs, teeth nipping gently at the swell of her breast spilling over the cup of her bra, tugging at the silken material. She complies, sits up on her elbows and quirks an eyebrow at him.

“You take it off,” she challenges, chin raised in defiance. 

“Always gotta have it your way, huh?” He covers her body with his own as he wraps one arm around her, fiddling with the clasp for a moment. She likes the way she can feel the heat of his blush.

“Been a while,” he explains embarrassedly. 

She kisses him softly. “You’re doing _fine,_ Lieutenant,” she reassures him. 

He captures her mouth with his once more, surging against her before breaking the kiss and retracing his previous path over her body: tongue trailing over freckle-dusted shoulders, teeth grazing over her clavicle, mouth enclosing over her bare breast, sucking hard at her nipple until she has her legs wrapped around him and her hand buried in his hair, his name a litany in the cool, dark bedroom.

“Gil, please, I can’t—I need—“

She rocks herself against him and groans when he slips a hand between them, _finally_ getting his fingers against her, pushing her underwear aside to get a the slick _heat_ of her. She should be embarrassed at how wet she is, how quickly she’s ready for him—but she’s wanted him for longer than she can remember and she needs him now. 

Gil is content to take his time, though. He works his fingers over her gently, thumb pressing at her clit in alternating pressures, circling over the bundle of nerves faster and faster, building her up towards climax before easing off.

Her fingernails scratch at his shoulder. “Stop teasing,” she whimpers, desperate for release. He kisses her, sucks at her tongue and bottom lip in response. She pushes him away and he goes with a laugh, sitting back on his heels, lips and fingers glistening.

She can’t remember the last time there was laughter in the bedroom.

But it seems that the game is over for Gil because he sits back and drinks her in, hand lazily stroking himself, not hurried in the slightest. Her eyes are fixed on him, on the way he touches himself just enough to take the edge off so he can prolong this. 

Her eyes meet his and she sucks in a breath at what she sees there: affection, admiration, longing, and something _gentle_ and too terrifying and overwhelming for her to name.

She licks her lips and sighs his name, stretching out on the bed before him.

It’s a flurry of activity after that: a hasty tug of her panties to get her bare before him (“Gil, don’t tear them!” “Jessica, for Christ’s sake, I’ll buy you a new pair.”) and then a gentle hand on his cheek to stop him from settling between her legs and getting his mouth and fingers and tongue on her.

“Later,” she gasps, impatient and grasping at his shoulders. “Next time.”

He growls at the thought of there being a next time and nods, kissing her quivering stomach. 

“What do you want, Jess?” He asks her, begs her. Every touch of his fingers against her body is like a reverent plea, a silent request for permission to touch her, a desire to bring _her_ desire. 

It’s too much, too overwhelming. She’s used to Martin and Endicott taking what they want, telling her what she wants and likes. All she knows is she wants him. 

But Gil is content to wrap his arms around her and roll their bodies so she’s atop him, flexes against her with a ragged groan, the hardness of him sliding through her wet folds, waiting for her to take control, waiting for her to tell him what she needs.

His hands palm her breasts, fingertips rolling her nipples tantalizingly gently—just enough stimulation to drive her crazy—until she’s crying out for him, ragged and desperate. But still, he doesn’t push, doesn’t _take._ He just waits, pleasuring her until she’s ready.

But Jessica Whitly hasn’t done _slow_ and reverent. She hasn’t done _lovemaking._ It feels too big, too impossible, for her to comprehend.

She wants to force the issue, wants him to just fuck her and take care of them both. 

(She can’t help but think about this as punitive. She doesn’t deserve pleasure from him. She’s broken and wrong and lonely and—)

Jess’ fingernails rake against his scalp, drawing a hiss from him, and she rocks her hips against his quick and dirty, reaching between them to wrap her hand around his cock and get him inside her. Gil surges up and cups her face in his hands and soothes and settle her with his kisses, nipping at her bottom lip. "Slow, sweetheart, _slow_. We got all night.”

"I don't--I can't--"

He kisses her cheek, her nose, her chin, her lips. "We don't have to rush, Jess." He drags his hands down her arm, tangles their hands together. "Let me love you."

"I don't think I know how to let you do that," she murmurs, closing her eyes and leaning her forehead against his. She hates that tears sting at her eyes. 

"Yes you do," he says softly, trailing kisses over her jaw and neck, sinking back into the pillows and bringing her down with him, settling her body atop his. “Together,” he says, kissing her softly.

When he pushes inside of her for the first time, they both gasp at the sensation. Jess buries her face into his neck and he groans, wrapping his arms around her—his big hand splayed out low on her back, encouraging the gentle rock and rhythm of their hips.

“That’s it, sweetheart. God, Jess—“

She keeps her eyes screwed shut, mouth working over the tender skin of his neck and shoulder, overwhelmed by the feel of him, by his gentle hands and reverent, praising words.

Gil pushes her hair back from her face, lips pressing messily and haphazardly wherever he can reach her. “Wanna see you,” he pants. “Jess, please.”

It feels like too much, _too much—_

And then he gently rolls them so she’s beneath him, trapped between the weight of him and the mattress. He flexes his hips, presses into her deeper, pulls out and pushes back in. It feels too good and her eyes fly open as she wraps her legs around his waist, heels digging into his back, nonsense murmurs of _more, more, God please, Gil, please_ slipping from her mouth.

He kisses each plea away, does exactly as she asks, pushes into her over and over again, slips his hand between her legs and rubs at her clit, urging her to crash over the edge with him.

She loses herself in the moment, the steady build-up, the warm weight of him, the _strength_ of him. Her eyes flicker open and she feels her chest clench in realization that this is _Gil_ pleasuring her, murmuring her name like a prayer, telling her how beautiful and strong and _good_ she is.

When she finally comes, it’s with a strangled cry of his name, tears stinging her eyes, clenching tight around him and drawing him impossibly closer. He tumbles right over the edge with her, panting and skin slick with sweat. 

He’s careful to not crush her but she wants to be held down and smothered, wrapped up completely, in him. He resists as she pulls him down atop her and finally compromises by pulling her half atop him. They’re sticky and sweaty and boneless and she can’t find the energy to do anything else but press soft kisses to his chest, his biceps, the underside of his jaw. 

“Gil, thank y—“

His kiss cuts her off, hands smoothing over her hair. “Don’t you dare _thank_ me,” he warns, breaking the kiss to gently trace his finger over the line of her nose and the delicate curve of her eyebrow.

“Okay,” she murmurs, pressing herself against him, breathing him in. “Stay?”

It’s a sleepy request, the words slurring slightly. She suddenly feels exhausted and boneless, no fight left in her: no fight against Martin, no fight against the past, no fight to keep her children on the straight and narrow path, no fight to resist her feelings towards this man holding her like she’s something precious.

She’s half-asleep when he brings the covers up to cover them both, a soft kiss dropped to the top of her head before pulling her closer and keeping her tucked beneath his chin and safe in his arms, when she hears him assure her, “I wouldn’t be anywhere else, Jess.”

For the first time in a long time, she sleeps through the night, her demons held at bay by the guardian in her bed. 


End file.
